Chopin: Valse 7
by Nyanonymous
Summary: She was the new rising star. He was the infamous critic, famous for his harsh reviews. When the time comes for him to review her, how will their past affect her performance, and his review?


I don't usually write song fic's, but I had to for this, I'll name the chapter's later with what song you should listen to. And the whole story will be named for the original piece that inspired me. Also thank you CattyJen. You gave me just the right amount of feedback. I'd never have thought of that till you pointed it out. This chapter is for you, hopefully I didn't screw up too badly. I do not own Naruto.

As always, I hope you enjoy, I'm trying a new kind of style, or as different as I can. So I'd really appreciate reviews, or flames. Even if you don't like music I hope you'll be able to enjoy this fic.

Well... Shall we begin?

The large room was black, a black that would swallow you up without the slightest hesitance if you so chose. The kind of black where you could loose yourself, and never realize it, because you'd never realize you'd left. The room was darker than need be, for there was no noise. The idle presence of chit-chat was not diminished, but not present at all. The full audience was ready, waiting.

The large black weapon of choice, stood on three legs in the center of the stage. The bright shining lights lit up the glossy wood, and the circular auditorium was silent as they awaited the next performer. The small doorway that lifted out onto the stage, saved the series performers from traveling amongst the crowd to reach the stage. The doorway was covered by a red curtain, and positioned just so that whoever exited the structure was visible to all.

The gentle clack of heels against stairs, brought the audience to attention. A pale slender hand, gently parted the deep red curtain.

One person clapped. The rest of the audience began to applaud the courage this person had, to go before them. But dear reader, it was they who were privileged.

The slender hand, extended to a slender arm till the whole form was revealed. The girl was young, obviously to old to be in high school, but not quite old enough for one to believe she'd graduated college. Ah reader, something you must know. She _had_, and she had done it well too.

Her black silk dress was plain, but she managed to make it look like the regal robes high princesses would've worn. Should they be of great rank. It ended a ways after her knee's. Not quite floor length, but not scandalously high. For what was proper concert etiquette. Diamond earrings sparkled, bringing out the misty green of her eyes. That was the only jewelry she had donned. Her fair pink tresses were in a loose bun, held up by a black pin.

She moved with the grace of a cat, standing to the side of her opponent, bowing deeply to the audience. For she truly appreciated that they had come to her. Poising herself above the bench. Adjusting it lower to give her just the right leverage. Once satisfied, she finally gave the nine-foot Steinway her undivided attention.

She paused, waiting for the excess welcoming applause to end. Only after the noise had ceased for fifteen seconds, did she begin to raise her fingers, to rest upon the ivory white keys. The piano was old, the keys were chipped, and had lost their luster. Still the natural splendor the instrument enticed was no less than a newer one. The key's still felt smooth, and gently pressing so as not to make a sound, she felt that they were well weighted. And she would have to work to control this.

_'It must be perfect. Remember, remember, the wild animal's.'_ Every piece of music has it's inspiration. And every piece of music has it's own _interpretation_ the difference, is whatever you want it to be, my dear reader.

Lightly tapping her index finger against C sharp, she signaled that the recording of her piece should begin. Setting her fingers, she waited.

If you've never heard the piece, you wouldn't understand the true feeling. I myself have played it, and can only touch on the magnitudes of what really transpires between music and the human mind. It gives us pleasure, but also pain. Yet when you are the one living the music, for if you play it you must, then you feel everything. The mistakes you can make, all come crashing down on you, you struggle to remember, and then you have to give into the temptation, and drown your soul in the sound. It is not a heavenly thing to play, my naive reader. Music that was made, was made black, and those who play are tinted. Giving up to the music, you loose one with your entity, and are no longer yours. If the music keeps you, you are kept. Only the musician is able to free you from the dreadful spell. That is if they are not lost as well...

Lightly, ever so lightly, she began the song. Nothing harsh about the notes, even the lower ones seemed to just appear, not be played. The auditorium was silent, no one wanted to miss the angelic tune.

Animals. Little animals danced around a tree, squirrels and chipmunks. Chasing each other, up and down, back around the small pine tree. Up the tree they go, then almost all the way down. For the tree was quite small. But the animal's were smaller, off goes the squirrel...

The sinful pause she created, almost made the vision fade. Only to return with more force. The tree was larger now, much larger, a redwood forest. Still the squirrel and chipmunk played.

She was concentrating, her fingers flew over the keys barely touching them, as she saw the little animals inside. _'Switch. Switch. Switch. Softly! Crescendo... accent! Flow... no rit. Here, remember allegro con brio.'_ Just one eighth beat later, a horribly loud minor key descended. The audience's attention was returned to the pianist. Rather than their own imaginations. She was very petite, but the way she played made her seem like the strongest of all.

She focused and focused. At last! Fermata..._hold it._ Then the peppy tune of old returned. Slightly different, the audience was unable to tell the difference, so caught up they were in the moment of the notes.

_'Just a slight poco rit... done!'_ There, the first movement down. Two more to go.

Lively she began the minuet. Darting over the trills, and turns. Up down over and under she played, repeating both sweet tunes. Then the softly played trio, sounded, so sad. The bittersweet melody flew from the keys, seemingly to come from the heart of the very girl before them. Such sadness, for one so young.

As soon as it had started it was gone, leaving the audience awestruck at the quickness of the player's hands. No repeats this time, as this was the coda. _'Ah, Fine!'_ The second movement was over.

On to the third. _'Skip! Skip! Be light! This is all about technique.'_ Flying over the turns, and crescendo's the sudden diminuendo had the listeners on the edge of their seats. The mix of the passionate trio, the lively minuet, and the continuous rhythmic flow, of the first movement. Formed the most fiery and passionate of all. The forte was louder than before, and pianissimo was softer. Evey thing was extreme, and the only one who could not sit back and enjoy the ferocious simplicity of this third and final movement, was the pianist herself. The vividness of the notes. The separation between them.

It was as if the spaces between the music were more important than the notes. That the spaces created the music, from the keys lovely sound. The ending chord came all to soon, and didn't last nearly long enough. But the musician was through, done and tired, and frightful of the audience's reaction. She stood from the bench. The slight squeak of the legs on the polished wooden floor snapped one man out of his reverie. The young woman, not past thirty, for she had yet to reach twenty five. Placed her hand atop the edge of the grand piano, and bowed deeply. Showing the audience how much she appreciated their etiquette. The one lone man began to clap. His deep melodic claps stayed steady, as others joined in. Soon the applause was deafening.

The young pianist smiled, bowing facing the four main points of the auditorium. Then she graciously bowed toward the sound of where the first clap had come, and made her exit.

The pianist Sakura Haruno, scurried out backstage as fast as she could. Eager to get home, for it was almost midnight. The thunderous applause flattered her. Her slight blush was not only because of the chill in the air.

Still amongst the the roaring crowd, a blonde man with three whisker marks on each cheek, smiled. His spiky blonde mop made it's way out the exit before the crowd had realized that the performer wasn't coming back on. He had found the one thing he had been looking for. The one person to prove him wrong. If only he had discovered her sooner! How could Sakura have hid from him _this_ long? Well, he was going to get it, but every moment would be worth it. She'd see. My dear reader, you all will see, yes indeed you will.

Please review, it makes writing worth while.


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